Pak

　　I wake up coughing, gripped by pain in my ribs. I flutter my eyelids, and this time I feel them moving. I adjust to the dark without color, only able to see shapes covered by a thin film of static, like very fine snow& but I can see. Sort of. I try to stand, but my feet are bound, and my hands are tied behind my back. I twist my wrists. The binding stops them from moving, too tight. I clench my fingers around as far as they will go. The tendons in my hands feel like they might snap. Prickly fibers tickle the tips of my fingers. Rope.

　　Do it.

　　When I summon the knife, it always appears in my left hand, my dominant hand, the hand I pricked when I was a child, but if it appeared there now it would pierce my kidney. This won`t be easy, but I didn`t survive this long just to die like an idiot. I inhale deeply and visualize the hilt in my palm. If I can summon it to my right hand, the blade should face the wall. I`ve never summoned it to my right hand. I don`t even know if I can. I struggle to reposition my left wrist, but the rope is so taut, it burns my skin, like it`s tearing away from the muscle beneath.

　　It`s not going to work.

　　Why don`t you call Cabbage?

　　I twitch, resisting the urge to speak out loud.

　　(I don`t want them to hurt him.)

　　You`ll kill yourself.

　　I grit my teeth. Ignore them.

　　Do it.

　　(Shut up!)

　　Breathe. Focus.

　　I imagine the hilt touching my right palm. It`s been a long time since I`ve had to practice this. Summoning the weapon is as natural as blinking, normally, but this is different. I can`t slip to the left. Still, my left hand burns with anticipation. Breathe. Focus&

　　To Evoke is to master one`s internal river, the sacred waters that feed all that lives.

　　To Evoke is to let it drip into the world, to find those who thirst and that which shrivels, and give.

　　I picture my right palm as a withering flower. The dirt that carries the river - my magic - is accustomed to pouring into my left, but I have to divert it. I gently nudge. The tingling follows. I nudge a little more, digging out a tributary. I`m sweating, straining my whole body. The magic trickles across my chest, to my right, and stops, flowing back. My left hand tingles, waiting for the knife to appear, like the shore waits for the tide.

　　Focus. Water the flower.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

　　I tap my right thumb to my index finger, awakening the nerves there, opening a path for the river to flow. Slowly, the magic migrates up my left arm, across my shoulders, down my right arm, into my hand. I hold it there for a minute, ensuring it does not flee again. It`s uncomfortable, like holding a hot mug with no handle, but I maintain my grip. The flower begins to bloom. I`m ready.

　　Exhale.

　　I hear a familiar, high-pitched whine. The dagger pours like sand into a glass, filling my palm with its cool silver-striped wood, and the blade seeps into the wall behind me. Pip. It fully materializes, and the rock tremors and cracks, holding the weapon in place. I suppress a breathy giggle.

　　It worked!

　　The weak voice on my left celebrates with me. I frantically adjust my body, sawing the rope against the blade, nicking my skin in the process, but I don`t care-

　　Heheheh&

　　The cold voice chuckles. I can feel its breath on my ear.

　　Stop laughing&

　　But it`s funny.

　　I work the rope into the blade, recklessly slicing into the edges of my hand. The thick, sweet scent of blood fills my nose.

　　Zzzzip!

　　My hands are free.

　　I send the weapon away - the cavern wall groans, creaks, settles - then return it to my dominant hand.

　　Hurry!

　　I cut through the rope binding my feet-

　　Idiot.

　　Footsteps echo down the cave.

　　Shhhh!

　　I send the weapon back - pip - and the rope drapes limply over my ankles. I slump over, pretending to be unconscious, perfectly still but for how my breath causes my stomach to swell. The stale cave air ripples in my captors` wakes. This should be easy. I have every advantage. The footsteps hasten. They kneel before me, whispering in that maddening tongue. I spring upright, adrenaline granting me the speed I need in spite of my weak knees. My shoulder meets someone`s face with a sickening crunch. They cry out in pain. The other one barks a command. I stagger forward, lurching with every flimsy step. Someone grabs at my shirt, grazing my flesh, but I barrel on, nearly blind, following the vague outline of the tunnel walls. The fine snow that covers the darkness shifts in front of me.

　　Get the weapon.

　　"Shut up!"

　　I collide head-first with a third enemy, knocking me off balance.

　　Kill it!

　　"NO!"

　　They catch me before I hit the ground and spin me into a choke hold. I thrash and gurgle and scream. The other two swoop in, restrain my arms, and stuff a gag into my mouth. I`m too weak.

　　Useless.

　　Every shred of fight leaves my body. I fall limp in my captor`s arms. They drag me to their wagon, passing agitated whispers. I don`t struggle anymore, even as they throw me onto the wagon bed and bind my limbs together. One of them stays beside me, seething. Soon, the wagon groans and lumbers on.